


At the Bottom of the Bottle

by GuardianofFun



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, F/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuardianofFun/pseuds/GuardianofFun
Summary: Malcolm's walls are so high, sometimes even he cannot see out. When all else fails, he turns to the only solution he has - drink. Phlox helps where he can, but one night Trip figures out their little routine, and learns a lot more about their stoic armoury officer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off a great chat I had with qquark one tumblr, looking into how Malcolm might handle all the angst we know he's got bottled up inside. Hope you enoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for blood and alcohol mentions

0300 hours is mostly quiet aboard the Enterprise. Running a skeleton crew of barely 20 crewmen, the corridors are for the most part, silent. The most noise on the ship comes from Sickbay. Far enough from crew quarters to leave them undisturbed, Phlox can potter around his space, humming to himself, perhaps listening to some Earth music if he’s feeling particularly inquisitive, or his own Denobulan playlists on the days he is wistful for home. Elsewhere on the ship, there’s the hum of the engines as they coast on impulse. The bridge is a comfortable kind of quiet that is occasionally broken by the light conversation of the late night bridge crew. The only other room of any particular note is the crew quarters on B deck. 

In the dark of his room, Malcolm Reed sits at, or rather curls around, the edge of his bed. The light above his bunk unlit, the only light in the room comes from the space behind the computer, left on purely so he can find his way around the small space. One hand curled around the neck of a bottle of whiskey he had stashed for four months now, glass long since lost to the shadows. From the computer, music plays. A soft, mournful arrangement that clashes terribly with the harsh, hacking coughs racking the lieutenant’s body. The action burns his throat more than the drink does, so he lifts it to his lips in the hopes of quashing the pain in his chest. The drink slides past his lips all too easily, an action repeated many nights these past five years. While it stops the coughs, the pain in his chest still lingers and furiously he is forced to admit the spluttering is not what has his heart aching and hands trembling. 

_Of course it isn’t,_ he thinks with a grimace _but it helps distract from it._ With that he goes for another drink, but realises it’s all but empty. He tilts his head back, resting it on the too-hard mattress of his bed and lets the drops fall to his lips. For some damn reason, the empty bottle that stares down at him sets his lip quivering, and before he knows it, tears are falling. 

Slowly at first, he tries to ignore the panicked feeling building in his chest, concentrating instead on the cool tracks the tears cut across his flushed and burning face. They travel in a crooked arch, over his cheeks and slip past his jaw to land on the mattress. It would almost be pleasant, but they blur his vision, and the panic they come hand in hand with makes his own fingers shake enough to let the bottle slip from his grasp. Malcolm Reed, the drunkard alone in his quarters has none of the quick reflexes of Lieutenant Reed, so the bottles catches him on it’s way down, landing with a loud thud on his nose. The ripple of pain causes more tears and for his neck to snap upright so he can prod at his throbbing nose. 

His face _is_ wet, but there is so little feeling in his hands that he cannot tell what. It takes him a moment to contemplate what to do. The drink that weighs him down fights against the last lingering instinct of survival that insists he find a mirror. The battle is long, and he sits frozen in his slouched position as blood trickles down his face. In the end, Malcolm finds himself on his knees, his room spinning around him. He can’t quite remember how long he has been wavering, or when the choice to attempt to get up was made. 

Either way, he is up now, so he shuffles across the floor to the computer standing on his desk. Hands grapple on the desk for support as he leans closer to the screen, his faint reflection more visible from so close. Dark lines of blood have bridged the gap between his nose and lips, and as he opens his mouth in hazy confusion he feels it pooled at the corner of his lips, watches as it continues down past his chin and drips in a steady beat onto the three day old top he has slung on. What should be bright white is a faded, almost grey and the blood on the chest is one of many stains. He can’t remember the last time he took his civvies to be washed.

Disgust rolls in his stomach, anger suddenly spiking through the drunken fog and he wipes furiously at the mess on his face. Disgust turns to nausea as he tastes the whiskey in his mouth still, and the copper tang of blood mixes with tears, a vile concoction settled on his tongue, warring with the overwhelming stench of his room and all the empty bottles and half finished plates that clutter it. Two nights alone, shut in his room at the orders of the captain - ‘ _working thirteen twelve hour shifts in a row isn’t healthy Lieutenant, take the next few days off’ -_ have let him fall back into this trap. 

Without work to focus on, without a PADD or a control panel to wrap his hands around they somehow manage to seek out the bottles he keeps under his bed, the bottles he knows he should not have. The bottles the chef lets him take, because one every now and then doesn’t hurt, but they are the bottles he stashes until he slips up next, when he makes a fool of himself on the bridge or he makes another damn mistake or he locks eyes with that blasted engineer for too long. Then he binges, and he drinks till there is nothing left because the disjointed world he sees after half a cabinet of booze is a better one than he lives in. With numbed senses he can close his eyes and pretend the blanket around him is the strong arm of Commander Tucker, the mattress he leans into is his broad chest. He can almost hear the commander’s thick accent murmuring in his ear as he curls around his toilet, imagines he can feels the soothing hand of Trip Tucker on his back as he retches. In this drunken stupor he can pretend as though the smiles and the laughter and all the brief brushes of hands and arms are something more than friendly. 

The sudden end to the music snaps him from his thoughts, pulls him back into his tightly sealed, too dark room and forces his eyes to readjust. Eyes slide past the mess of a man staring back from the unlit screen, his eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying, nose and lips sticky with slowly congealing blood. He cannot bear to look at that man, so his eyes find something, anything else. A photo in a frame, tilted to the chair he's has somehow knocked over, stands proudly. The two men in it smile up at him, relaxed and carefree grins of two Starfleet officers on leave for a few days. Uniforms exchanged for garish shirts and comfortable jackets, a different Malcolm Reed looks back at him, shoulder pressed against Trip’s chest as the engineer throws an arm around his neck, pulling him close to strike a pose for the crewman behind the camera. 

That moment from so long ago is frozen in his mind forever, though perhaps frozen is the wrong word because it brings nothing but the warmest joy, the feel of Trip against him, his face mere inches from Malcolm’s, breath warm on his shoulder as he laughs and then shoves his face closer and in a stage whisper tells him to ‘ _gimme a smile then, Mal’._ The picture though, the picture is his proof of this moment. The single moment on a planet whose name he can’t even remember, because it was the moment he realised he was well and truly in love with Charles Tucker III. 

Fresh tears fall suddenly, and trembling fingers grab blindly for the frame. The years have not been kind to him; a broken string of girlfriends, a few odd nights with guys he had met in bars, a few other people he had gone for drinks with, but never anyone who stuck around longer than a month. Trip had stuck around, he was a friend when nobody else was and a pang of fear cut through Malcolm when he realised he would never feel this way for anyone else because Trip wasn’t interested. A dark voice from somewhere told him he only loved Trip because he _had_ stuck around so long, because circumstance had them thrown together but Malcolm didn’t want to believe in that, he wanted so badly to believe in fate. He wanted to believe the universe was finally making up for the shitty childhood and the shitty parents and the shitty life he’d had thus far. 

A half choked scoff brakes through the tears. _The universe would never be that nice_ he thinks, of course not. This was another ploy on fate’s behalf, because there was no way he deserved such happiness. He was a terrible person who had done some terrible things, so this was the universe laughing in his face, waving what-could-have-beens in front of him as Trip found himself happy in the arms of many a beautiful women. As much as he felt sorry for himself though, he thinks to himself, _I deserve it._

He doesn’t realise he is gripping the frame with white knuckles till they start tingling with tension, once again snapping him from his haze. A shuddering gasp breaks the silence of the room, and he is sobbing again. It just hurts, everything hurts; his face, his hands, his thighs and calves, where he has been crouched by his desk so long, his head throbs, his mouth is dry. It hurts to swallow, makes him cough and wheeze in unattractive sobs. His mother would have called them hysterics, the wild screaming tantrum of a young boy who can’t find the words to describe his first headache. Knees weak, he shifts down to the floor, first slouching and then slipping until he lies curled on the floor. Under the desk there is nothing but darkness, and he stares until he swears he can see things looking back out at him. The hurt in his chest turns to fear, and in a fit of panic the photo frame is thrown into the shadows, his last piece of light soon swallowed by the nothingness. 

There’s a tinkling sound of glass hitting the wall, something shattering and his stomach does somersaults as he realises what he’s done. Dragging unresponsive hands across rough carpet he throws himself after the frame, fingers brushing shards he cannot feel bite and tear at his skin. Finally they bump against the frame, and he falls from shadows with it clutched to his chest. Safe by his bed once more, the glow of his lamp casting light on him he holds up his last happy memory. Perfect and in tact, not a chip or scratch on it. It must have hit a glass, Lord knows he has a dozen at least shoved in the monstrous chasm. Evidence of every late night spirit and early morning tipple fuelling it. 

None of it matters though, because the photo is okay. Except, not quite, there’s a stain on it. Something smudged over his own face and with a soft yelp he realises it’s him, a cut on his thumb smearing dark red over the glass. Finally, there is a voice inside that sounds like Lieutenant Reed, telling him to drag his sorry arse up. It prompts him to the door, to find the comm. and push it hard.

“Sickbay?” comes a nearly instant response, the doctor’s voice curious but calm.

“Phlox?” he says, but he isn’t sure that’s what comes out. He tries again, slower. “Ph…lox?” He doesn’t think there’s a response though, or if there is, he cannot hear it because his legs have given out on him and he finds himself face down on the floor with blood pounding in his head. The only noise in the room is his laboured breathing, and the comm. in the corner full of Phlox’s worried voice. 

“Lieutenant Reed? Please, stay where you are, I’ll come find you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of depression

Trip Tucker felt as though his head was about to explode. He had got off shift late and run to the mess before chef stopped serving dinner, a migraine lurking behind his eyes the whole time. Falling into bed almost instantly, he hadn’t thought much of it until he woke in the middle night with what felt like a knife in his brain and sandpaper in his throat. With a groggy sigh, he pulls himself upright. He had heard from some of his team that there was a bug going around the ship, something from a newly opened case in the hydroponics bay it was rumoured. _Don’t matter where it’s from though,_ he thought as he pulled himself from his bed, _It’s killing me!_ Stretching as he stands, one hand falls to massage at his brow where the tight knot of tension is. He riffles through his drawers to find some sweatpants and a jumper he can throw on over his blue briefs. 

Shuffling out into the corridor, he’s thankful for the low lighting as he slips into the turbolift. At almost three in the morning it’s silent too, the quietest hum of the lift only slightly irritating. As he reaches the doors of Sickbay he can already see Phlox, a PADD in his hand as he wanders around the infirmary, seemingly dictating a letter. When Trip steps through the doors, he turns mid-sentence, and stops with a smile. 

“Computer, pause that,” he says, making his way over to the commander. He smiles broadly, hands clasping the PADD, with a little too much enthusiasm, Trip thinks, for so late at night. “Commander! What can I do for you?” he asks and Trip can’t help wincing. He rubs at his forehead, and when he speaks he know he sounds a little bit whiny.

“My head doc, it’s killin’ me,” his bottom lip sticks out in the pout that always got him a day off school as a kid. “And m’ throat’s sore too, I feel crap,” he moans and Phlox shakes his head affectionately. “It sounds like you’ve caught that cold that I’ve been treating all day,” he says, stepping back and waving a hand towards one of the biobeds. “Make yourself comfortable commander, I’ve got just the thing.”

Trip hoists himself up, legs swinging as he watches Phlox tinker with some vials. The doctor glances back at as he fills hyposprays. “Are you having trouble sleeping as well?” he asks and Trip nods. “Yeah, it woke me up,” he grumbles. “I’m on duty at 0800 as well, could really do with a decent night’s sleep.” Phlox grins again, grabbing another spray before returning to his side. “I’ll give you something to help with that as well, as well as something for your head,” he says gesturing for Trip to tilt his head. He does so, quiet as the doctor presses the device to his neck. Almost immediately the pain in his head is virtually gone. He cracks a smile, chuckling. “Doc, have I told you lately how much I love you?” Phlox laughs back, wagging a finger at him. 

“I’ll remind you of that next time you come in here needing one of my creatures,” he says, readying the second spray. Trip goes to reply with some witty retort, but the comm. suddenly goes off. Phlox smiles ruefully. “Another crewmen with this cold no doubt,” he says and Trip waves a hand. 

“Answer it doc, I can wait for a bit.” Phlox nods, tapping the panel. 

“Sickbay?” he asks. A flicker of worry when there is no instant response, and then a mumbled sound. It almost sounds like his name, and he goes to ask again when whoever it is repeated themselves. 

“Ph-lox…” slurred and broken, but undeniably accented, he knew at once who it was. Trip’s head snapped up at the unshakeable sound of Malcolm slurring over the comm., and Phlox felt guilt stab in his gut. 

“Lieutenant Reed? Please, stay where you are, I’ll come find you,” he spoke, concern heavy in his voice. These calls from Malcolm were not uncommon. He knew the lieutenant found it difficult to open up to people, and had a history of turning to alcohol. He had found out when the man had stumbled through his doors one night many years ago, once again in the early hours of the morning with what had turned out to be a fractured wrist. Since then, Phlox had gradually picked up on the signs, learning when the armoury officer had had a tough day and his assistance would be required. All too often, he had found himself either sat next to Malcolm on his bed or propping him up on the biobed for hours at a time while the drunken officer apologised repeatedly, words echoing around the bucket he had his head hanging over. 

Each time, Phlox asked Malcolm if he would take up his offer of a councillor, or at least let him open up more the stoic lieutenant’s eyes hardened and he refused. Bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, Phlox had kept quiet about it from the crew, though he had dropped hints to chef about keeping a tighter lock on their harder liquors. Through nights of keeping his unsteady college comfortable, he had learned a lot about Malcolm. When he had too much wine, he tended to flush deep red and spend hours ranting about his father, too much brandy and it was mostly incoherent sobs about his past. Though even through alcohol he kept tight lipped about his work before joining Enterprise, Phlox had gathered that whatever organisation he had been part of had left some scars even he could not heal. Perhaps most important of all though, Phlox knew of Malcolm’s feelings for the man sitting in his sickbay. No matter the drink, most every conversation turned to Malcolm’s broken heart. 

“Doc?” Trip’s voice pulls him from his musings, and prompts him into action. He begins opening drawers and pulling out the kit he has specially prepared for these nights now. He throws Trip a small smile. 

“Ah yes, commander, let me just prepare some things and I’ll be right over. You’ll be back to bed in no time!” he says with forced cheeriness. Trip pushes himself off the biobed, coming over to watch Phlox fill a small case. 

“That was Malcolm, he don’t sound too good, do you need me to do anythin’?” Phlox waves a hand dismissively. “I’m sure it’s just this bug commander.” Trip folds his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing. The tiredness in him is gone, concern for the overworked armoury officer shoving it aside. 

“As far as I’m aware Phlox, that bug ain’t got very far yet, I mean it’s only just got to my crew. Malcolm’s been locked up in the armoury all day, whatever he’s got it’s not this.” Phlox sighs as he clicks the case in his hand shut. He meets Trip’s eye, and regrets it because the man’s eyes are piercing. 

“I’m all sorted now Commander, if you’ll just sit down, I can give you your last dosage and be on my way,” he says, pointedly ignoring Trip’s words. Trip huffs, his hands moving down to his hips. 

“I’m not tired anymore, Phlox.”

The doctor stands by the bed, one hand turned towards it in invitation. Like a scene from one of Trip’s favourite old western movies, there is a standoff in sickbay. Neither man speaks, expecting the other to make the first move. Phlox knows that by now, Malcolm’s probably out cold, and the needs of his patients win out. With a sigh he shakes his head. 

“Then fine, no sleep medication. If that’s all Commander, I have a patient to see to. Goodnight,” he says, grabbing the case and heading for the door.Just as he had feared, the commander is quick on his heels, jogging to catch up with the Denobulan’s quick strides.

“Doc, wait up! What’s goin’ on?” he calls, falling into step with him. Phlox refrains from turning his head to look at Trip, but the amount of worry in the engineers voice makes him sigh. 

“Like I said, Commander Tucker, I believe Lieutenant Reed is ill, I am just going to offer him some-“ 

“That’s bullshit,” Trip cuts in as they reach the lift. His hand reaches out, blocking the door. Unable to ignore his unwanted companion anymore, Phlox turns to him once again. “S’cuse my language Phlox, but he was slurrin’ like my granddad at Christmas. What’s wrong with him?” Phlox sniffs. 

“I don’t know commander, I have yet to examine him.”

The hand stays where it is, gripping the doorframe hard enough to turn knuckles white. “Phlox please don’t lie to me. Malcolm’s my friend, I want to help him.” Frustration fills Phlox, and the urge to smack both the commander and lieutenant’s heads together seemingly flares up from nowhere. Growing up in a huge family, surrounded by love of all kinds, it is blindingly obvious the good doctor that Trip feels some type of affection for Malcolm. He wonders if, unlike Malcolm, Trip has yet to even admit to himself, and he would have questioned the man on it years ago had he not been effectively under orders from Malcolm to refrain from doing so. Once sober, the head of security would often arrive in his sickbay, dark eyes and a clean uniform, thanking him for the nights actions and apologising profusely. 

Nose streaked with red as he stammered out his first apology, over five years ago, Phlox had reassured him that he had seen much worse, and that all his secrets were safe with him. While it had helped to break down some of Malcolm’s walls, and helped to build a close friendship between the doctor and security chief, Phlox sometimes regretted such a promise. Now, Malcolm would tell him things that all but broke his heart, but Phlox knew telling anyone else any of it would destroy the trust they had worked hard to build up. If, on the one hand he did inform the captain of Malcolm’s struggles with depression, then Starfleet would help to find support for him - but Phlox would loose one of his closest friends onboard, probably forever, and Malcolm would probably refuse the help anyway. Instead, by keeping quiet, he could ensure he was there for Malcolm each time as someone he could trust implicitly. Yet somehow it felt as though each night like this was coming quicker and quicker, and it sometimes felt like he was losing Malcolm anyway. 

“If you really wish to help him, then you will let me see to him,” he says, inwardly cringing at how sharp his words come out. Trip gives him an odd look, one eyebrow raised. 

“Commander, please move your arm,” he says flatly.

“Tell me what’s going on, _doctor_ ,” he counters, voice hardening around his title. “Don’t make me pull rank,” he says, and that gets him a stern glare. He’s seen scarier on his mother though, and won’t let it get to him. Phlox relents quickly though, and that tells him all he needs about how badly Malcolm needs help. _Something’s really wrong_ he thinks with a sinking feeling.

“I won’t tell you anything commander, but if you insist on not returning to your quarters-“ is all the permission Trip needs, and he slips into the lift ahead of Phlox. The doctor steps in beside him and Trip punches the button for B deck. They ride in silence, the lift a little frosty as they leave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for blood, depression and alcohol mentions  
> Some swearing too

When there was no response from Malcolm to either Phlox or Trip’s voice, Trip’s stomach twisted. Watching as Phlox taps in his override code, the engineers hands clench at his side. The door can’t open quick enough, and he finds himself nudging the doctor to get in. Phlox’s slightly chilly attitude seems to have vanished as they step through into Malcolm’s room, and Trip is no longer his concern. As the doctor scoots past and flicks the lights on Trip can see into the room and he feels as though one of the MACOs has punched him in the chest. 

Malcolm has collapsed on the floor, hunched over mostly on one side with his face pressed against the floor, arms trapped under his chest. The floor around his face is a lot darker than the rest and with flickering horror Trip realises it’s blood, and that what he can see of Malcolm’s face is smeared with the stuff too. Feeling something sting in his eyes at the sight, he steps forward and crouches down by Malcolm’s face. Phlox is already ahead of him, kneeling behind Malcolm’s back with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Malcolm?” Phlox says, with a type of softness he has never heard from the doctor. The use of Malcolm’s first name confuses him as well. He looks over at the doctor, whose hand has slipped to Malcolm’s neck. For a second he cannot say anything, but then Phlox looks up and gives him a sharp nod. “He’s just unconscious,” he says quietly. Trip stares down at Malcolm for a second, taking in the dirty shirt and damp face. 

“What the hell is goin’ on doc?” he asks and Phlox does not reply, but his eyes flick over to the space under the desk. A pile of bottles and broken shards of glass clutter the space, and now thinks about it, he can smell it too, especially as he drops his head closer to Malcolm’s.

“He drank all that?” he all but yells. Phlox shots him another quick glare, but it’s too late because the man between them is stirring at the sound. A noise somewhere between a sob and a groan escapes the fallen security chief and Trip feels his heart leap uncomfortably. It feels so wrong to see the man like this, so exposed. When his bleary eyes crack open they are already full of tears that fall without him realising. 

Phlox takes the man’s shoulders, helping to manoeuvre him upwards. It seems he has yet to notice there are people in the room as he is hoisted into a sitting position, and finds Phlox’s hands holding his shoulders steady. He goes to ask Trip to help but he is already moving to place his hands at Malcolm’s waist, holding him from behind so that Phlox can get a better look at his bloodstained face. Malcolm sways as Phlox releases his grip on him, so Trip wraps his arms further around the Englishman’s waist, pulling him into an unsteady embrace. He peers over Malcolm’s shoulder warily, his gaze caught by something clutched tightly in his hands. The doctor’s voice though, drags his eyes away from whatever it is.

“Malcolm, please let me look at you face,” Phlox says gently, and once again Trip is confused by the lack of rank. In response, the armoury officer turns his head away in an exaggerated motion, pressing his face against Trip’s chest. It is only then that Malcolm realises there is a body supporting him, and his head tilts upwards. For a second Trip is struck by how different Malcolm looks. The wide eyes, and gaping mouth surprise on his face reminds him of his nieces and nephews, who aren’t afraid to show every nuance of emotion on their faces. The man in his arms is nothing like the calm and collected officer he knows on duty. For a second, Malcolm’s face splits into a grin and Trip almost gasps. He doesn’t recall ever seeing more than a half smile from Malcolm, at best there’s the small smile that accompanies his laugh whenever someone makes a decent joke. This is a full grin, eyes shining and all. If not for the blood coating half his face, Trip might have said Malcolm looked good when he grinned. 

“Tr’p!” The engineer feels his face warm. “Hey there Malcolm,” he replies, “It’s good to see you an’ everythin’ but can you let Phlox take a look at’cha face? You’re a bit beat up,” he says, nudging him forward with his chest. At the sound of his voice, Malcolm flinches. His eyes dart back up and the grin is gone, replaced with a look of abject terror as though he is only now realising he is being cradled by the commander. Seeing him react without his quick observations and snappy reflexes makes Trip uneasy.

“Don’t worry commander, he can be a little slow on the uptake like this.” Trip does a double take but the doctor is already moving to find the correct hypospray. _Sounds as though he’s talkin’ from experience_ Trip’s mind supplies, and his unease intensifies. In his arms, Malcolm is now struggling to extract himself, his actions jerky and uncoordinated. 

“If you could try to hold him still for a moment?” Phlox asks and Trip carefully unwinds one arm so that he can pass it across Malcolm’s chest, pinning his arms down so that Phlox can deliver the medication. 

“What is that?” he asks, as Malcolm’s movements slow. “A mild sedative, it should calm him down enough to let me clean up his face,” Phlox replies, pulling on a pair of gloves. As he gently holds Malcolm’s chin in one hand, the other coming up to run along the bridge of his nose, Trip lets his hold on Malcolm loosen. With Malcolm slouched against him, the smell of some sort of liquor is even stronger and his own stomach turns at the thought of it. Tucker men can hold their drink, but even the pile under Malcolm’s desk looks terrifying.

His eyes instead are drawn back to the shape in Malcolm’s hands, which he now can see is a photo frame, pressed to his chest with weak hands. While Phlox is cleaning up Malcolm’s face, Trip slides the hand at Malcolm’s waist round just far enough to pull on the frame. The movement though, alerts the drunken man in his arms, whose grip on it tightens tenfold. Even drugged, Malcolm is possibly the strongest man on the ship, and Trip only just manages to avoid the fist flung at his face. Suddenly Malcolm is speaking again, slurred and jumbled.

“No! No it’s - it’s.. s’mine, not-“ Then once again, he realises whose hand it is wrapped around the frame, and tears fill his eyes. He lets out a shaky sigh.

“Of fuck, Trip I’m sorry I-“ Staring at Phlox, Trip cannot see the security chief’s face, but his ears have turned red, and his shoulders heave as he sobs. 

“I’m sorry, I never meant to, I didn’t- Phlox?” As Malcolm throws himself upwards, it leaves a cold space on Trip’s chest that makes him feel strangely sad. He watches instead as Malcolm moves closer to Phlox. 

“Fuck, Phlox I did it again didn’t I, I did it and Phlox _he’s_ here and I can’t d-do this a-anymore,” he sobs, and Phlox’s hand reaches to pat him on the back gently. As the Englishman’s words dissolve into incoherent mutterings, Phlox reaches for another hypospray this time with something for the blossoming headache the lieutenant no doubt has. Malcolm’s shoulder slump and his arms fall limp to the floor, photo frame lying in his upturned hand. Trip doesn’t need to pick it up to see what it is, even through the smudges that he gruesomely realises are blood. One of his own bright shirts stands out, and another more subdued outfit identifies the other occupant of the picture as Malcolm. He can’t remember where it was taken, or what they had been talking about but the smiles on both their faces make his lips tug upwards. How he has not seen this photo so far, this living living proof that Lieutenant Reed _can_ smile, he does not know. Scanning the room, the fact that it is the only picture stands out, even more so that there is nothing of a personal nature in the room at all. Compared to Trip’s own room, with all it’s knick-knacks and tat, as well as countless photos of his family and friends, Malcolm’s seems painfully empty. The most personal touch he can see is the collection of books on the shelves, but their hard backs and straight spines hardly tell him anything about Malcolm that he doesn’t already know. The only surprise in the room is the pile of empty bottles.

Thinking it might help console the him, Trip shuffles to sit closer to Malcolm’s side, and taps the frame. An easy smile on his face he asks

“Where’s this from then? It’s a helluva nice picture.” Malcolm turns to him, waving a hand at Phlox who is trying unsuccessfully again to attend to his bruised face. With his eyes narrowed, Malcolm attempts an angry attitude as he swats at Trip’s hand. 

“Nothin’” Trip’s smile widens.

“Sure don’t look like nothin’ to me, lieutenant!” he laughs lightly, forgetting for a minute the state Malcolm’s in and getting lost in their normal easy banter. Malcolm’s lip wobbles, and Trip knows he’s messed up as Malcolm pushes himself to his knees. 

“Oh c’mon Malcolm, I was just tryna make you feel better,” he says, twisting around as Malcolm gets to his feet and staggers towards the door. Phlox is already up, and goes to follow as Malcolm hits the door and slips out of the room. Trip is quick to match suit, but he grabs Phlox’s arm before he can leave. Smile gone, his face is sober and commanding. Taking a gamble on his hunch, he asks in a low voice

“How long has this been goin’ on Phlox?” He can see the struggle in the doctor’s eyes, but he soon relents. 

“For… sometime commander. This is not the first time I have found Malcolm like this, and he is often… troubled,” he says, and there is a sadness in his voice that he cannot hold back, a sadness unsuited to their usually jovial doctor. Gritting his teeth, Trip turns to the door.

“Let’s go find him then shall we? Get him back to sickbay, right?”

“Considering the ah, condition of his room, I think that would be a wise choice,” sticking his head out of the door into an empty corridor, Phlox adds. 

“He’s probably gone to the armoury.” 

* * *

Hunched over his console panel in the armoury, photo still in hand, Malcolm goes over the armoury inventory. The words flashing by are familiar, the numbers easy and straightforward, the rhythmic beeps of the computer a comfort. In here, he is in charge. When everything around him slips away, his own self-control and dignity included, he has his weapons. He can ignore the incessant intrusive thoughts; the criticism that comes in the voice of his father, the disappointed lectures in that of the captain’s, the harsh insults in Trip’s. The disgusted, acidic remarks come though, in his own voice.

So he moves from the computer, stumbles to the lockers that hold the phase pistols. Keying in his authorisation code, he yanks the doors open. All his pistols, tucked in their holsters. He counts them, then counts them again. He goes to cough them a third time, but gets lost somewhere around twenty and starts again. On his fifth count, hands tracing over each pistol to keep him steady, he hears the doors open behind him. 

The voice that sounds like Archer tells him to stop what he is doing but seeing as it’s really only his own thoughts, he ignores it. He hears footsteps moving closer. He refuses to turn his head, switches to counting aloud to prove the fact he is not listening. 

Then he hears Phlox, his voice calm and comforting, as always. 

“It’s okay Malcolm, you can stop,” he says, and for once, Malcolm follows his doctor’s orders. His hand falls to his side and with nothing to hold onto he sways. Phlox’s gentle hand grasps his arm, and he lets Malcolm drop his head onto his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry Phlox,” he whispers into his friend’s shoulder. “I-I’m… I’m a fucking mess. It’s all his damn fault, I’m sorry.”

His stomach twists as the alcohol and sleep medication suddenly hit him like a torpedo to the chest. His knees weak and head spinning, he doesn’t notice as two pairs of hands guide him to the floor. “Stupid… engineer…” he hears himself mumble, but he sounds so far away. His voice a mere murmur, Trip only just catches Malcolm’s last words before he falls asleep in their arms.

“Love him... so fuckin' much...”

And just like that, Trip’s entire world stops. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked, if you have any comments or criticisms I would love to hear them <3


End file.
